


people can surprise you (or not)

by pdameron



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Minor Character Death, Murder Mystery, Pining, Undercover as a Couple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-07
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2019-03-01 10:33:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13292973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pdameron/pseuds/pdameron
Summary: “I’m not you, Bond. I don’t exactly have a technique for getting rich strangers to like me.”“Just do your naive cute puppy thing, and they’ll be doting on you in no time,” Bond replies as he pulls up to the grand estate.“Mywhat?”Q asks incredulously. Bond doesn’t answer, simply giving him an indulgent smile. The fucker.(or: 00q meets Gosford Park. Except not really.)





	people can surprise you (or not)

**Author's Note:**

> this is basically what happens when you read three agatha christie novels and then watch gosford park whilst still neck deep into your 00q phase
> 
> big shout out to [gammadolphin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gammadolphin/pseuds/gammadolphin) for betaing again, you are the moon of my life, my sun and stars, etc

“I look like your valet,” Q grumbles, climbing into the Aston next to Bond and tugging on his suit jacket. It must be at least two hundred pounds cheaper than Bond’s. 

“Don’t let anyone hear you say that. They might actually believe you,” Bond replies with a smirk, pulling out of the MI6 lot. 

“Oh come off it. People don’t still have personal valets. I was joking.”

Bond glances over at him, simply raising a brow in reply. 

“Oh no. That’s not - these people aren’t like  _ that _ , are they?” Q asks with a groan, slouching down further into his seat and rubbing at his eyes tiredly.

“Like what?” 

“Fuddy duddy layabout pheasant shooters who shit out money?”

“Most of them don’t have too much money to shit anymore,” Bond says, smiling. “They just have the right name, and they like the lifestyle.”

“I thought we were going to the country, not  _ back in time.” _

“If you make even one  _ Downton Abbey _ joke, I'm driving you back to your cave.”

“You say that as if it isn't exactly what I want. The only computer on this estate is a fifteen year old  _ Dell _ ,” He gripes, spitting it out as if it were a dirty word. The ancient desktop, disconnected from any sort of mainframe, is the reason he’s out in the field in the first place. Q’s feeling awfully resentful.

Bond lets out a laugh, a small thing that deepens the crow’s feet at the corner of his eyes.

He's unbearably gorgeous, Q thinks darkly. That fucker.

“It could be worse. You could  _ actually _ be my valet.”

  


  


*****

  


  


They reach the rolling estate just as the sun begins to set. Q takes one look at the opulent wrought-iron gate and rolls his eyes.

“‘Wynchwood Manor,’” Q grouses. “Who  _ names _ their homes anymore?”

Bond stares at Q, unimpressed, waiting for the penny to drop.

Oh, right. 

Skyfall.

“Er… Well, I guess in your case it would be different. I mean, it’s not like you...indulged in this sort of…” He sighs. “Apologies, Double-oh-Seven.”

Bond, instead of getting defensive, just smiles, shaking his head. If Q didn’t know better, he’d think the older man looks almost fond.

“You’ll have to call me James, you know. Can’t go around calling me by my codename during the first course.”

“Right. Sorry.”

Bond gives him a shrewd look. “You’ll be fine, Q. I’m sure you’ll have them charmed within minutes.”

Q snorts. “I’m not you,  _ James _ . I don’t exactly have a technique for getting strangers to like me.”

“Just do your naive cute puppy thing, and they’ll be doting on you in no time.”

“My _ what?”  _ Q asks incredulously, but Bond doesn’t answer, smiling as he pulls up to the front drive, shifting into park. He just sits there, letting the engine idle. Q goes to reach for his door handle, but Bond shakes his head. But why wouldn’t he - ?

A valet of some sort comes to the side of the car, opening Q’s door for him, and he tries very hard not to roll his eyes. Bond laughs at him anyway.

A smartly dressed older gentleman stands at the front steps of the grand house, smiling genially and holding a glass of  _ sherry _ , because of course he is. At his side is a thin woman, presumably his wife. Q’s pretty sure that’s a real fox stole wrapped around her neck. 

“James! How good to see you, my boy.”

Bond’s suddenly all smiles, and this, at least is familiar to Q. He knows Charming Fake Bond almost better than he knows Real Arsehole Bond. 

Tragically, it is Real Arsehole Bond who’s won Q’s heart, and not his genial counterpart.

“Rupert, Camille,” Bond greets the couple with what is definitely false cheer, offering his hand to the man and a quick peck on the cheek for the woman. “It’s been far too long.”

“I was beginning to think we’d never get you back to Wynchwood, Jamie dear,” the woman, Camille, says, and Bond stiffens slightly at the nickname. Probably because he knows that behind him Q is biting his lip as he tries desperately not to laugh. 

_ Jamie _ Bond.

“I’d feared the same. The city has nothing on this old beauty, that’s for sure,” Bond replies smoothly, ignoring the pet name. This is a blatant lie. Q knows for a fact that London is Bond’s favorite place on earth. “Oh, how rude of me. I was so caught up in our little reunion, I forgot to introduce my companion. Rupert, Camille, this is Quentin Boothroyd. Quentin, meet Rupert and Camille Leighton. They were friends of my parents’.”

Q has two thoughts at the same time. The first: _ that fucking dickhead, my codename was supposed to be William -  _ **_Quentin_ ** _ indeed, he just lives to wind me up - _

The second:  _ Oh, poor Bond. _

Q had known, distantly, that Bond had an in with the hosts of this little gathering, that he was chosen specifically for this assignment because of his background. But Q hadn’t realized how personal this was going to be for the agent. He’ll be talking about his family all weekend.

Bond’s insistence that it be Q and not some other techie that accompanied him on this op makes a bit more sense now. Q, at least, Bond trusts.

Q plays up how taken aback he is by the house, widening his eyes and smiling shyly at the couple. “I’ve never seen such a grand place in all my life. Your home is breathtaking, truly.” 

Also completely ridiculous, ostentatious, and a perfect example of bourgeois excess.

Camille positively beams at him, reaching out and  _ pinching his cheek, for fuck’s sake _ . He doesn’t miss the way Bond’s shoulders are shaking with silent chuckles beside him. “Oh, aren’t you a darling? And so cute, too!”

Rupert seems to agree, though perhaps less effusively. “You’re too kind, Mr. Boothroyd.”

“Oh, please, call me Quentin. Everyone does,” he says, smiling politely as Camille links her arm with his and leads him into the house. He looks over at Bond, making sure the other man is following close behind. He refuses to be left alone with these people. 

As soon as Q makes eye contact, though, Bond mouths the word ‘puppy’ at him teasingly, and he changes his mind. He hopes Bond dies a horrible death and that he’ll never have to look at his smug face ever again.

Puppy, his arse.

Just as they enter the main hall, someone calls for their hosts, and Camille turns to them with an apologetic smile.

“The work of a hostess is never done,” she says with a put-upon sigh. Q wonders what actual work she does as a hostess other than talking to her guests. She’s not cooking or cleaning or decorating, that’s for sure. She gestures to - is that an  _ actual _ butler? “Damian here will take your coats and your luggage to your rooms.”

“Rooms? Plural?” Bond asks. He’d told the couple when he’d RSVP’d that he and his partner would be joining them. The implication of their ‘relationship’ had been pretty clear. They’d all agreed while they were prepping for the mission that it would be easier for Bond and Q to run the op if they shared private quarters.

“Just for propriety’s sake,” Rupert answers. “Aunt Winifred will be joining us, along with the Blythes. You know how they are. Not as accepting of the gays as us modern folk.”

Q can’t help his snort of laughter at that, which he hastily turns into a cough. 

“Not to worry, though,” Rupert continues, oblivious, “Your rooms have a connecting washroom.”

“What, like a hotel?” Q asks before he can catch himself. God, he sounds like an absolute pleb.

Camille, however, just gives Q an indulgent smile. “We’ll meet you in the drawing room, boys.”

Once Damian has shown them to their rooms, Q flops on his bed, letting out all his breath in a huff. “The mere thought of either of them as ‘modern folk’ is laughable.”

“You’re awfully judgmental for someone who sounds as posh as you do. The way you talk, you’re practically one of them.”

Q sits up, glaring at Bond. “Despite my  _ diction _ , I grew up in a one bedroom flat with my mother in Croyden. That foyer is as big as my childhood home.”

His first request after he’d been made Quartermaster had been to move his mother to a safer area of London. For security purposes, of course. Not just because his mum deserves nice things and he loves her.

It’s more than he ever planned on sharing with Bond, but the man has a way of getting under his skin, of making him defensive. If Q were ever to be interrogated, Bond is the man for the job. One misplaced comment and he’d fall over himself trying to prove Bond wrong.

“I didn’t know that about you,” Bond says quietly.

“There’s quite a lot about me you don’t know.” Q hesitates, trying to think of a way to turn the conversation away from himself. The sooner Bond stops giving him that thoughtful, curious look, the better.  “Though I’d wager I’ll be learning a bit more about you this weekend,  _ Jamie _ .”

That does the trick. Bond groans. “Don’t even start, Q.”

  


  


*****

  


  


Bond and Q head down to the drawing room after a few minutes. Well, more like Bond forces Q to the drawing room, the quartermaster dragging his feet the whole way.

They walk through the grand halls, Q running his fingers along the fancy banisters and the old-as-fuck furniture and the gold frames of the irritatingly beautiful oil paintings. He likes the thought of dirtying up the hoity-toity house with his middle class fingerprints. 

Damian the butler bows slightly as they pass, and a maid stops mid-dust to curtsy at them. Q rolls his eyes for the umpteenth time.

“You’re going to strain your eyes if you don’t stop rolling them.”

“I can’t help it. It’s the only appropriate reaction that doesn’t involve screaming.”

Bond barks out a laugh at that, loud and full. It’s the most genuine laughter Q’s heard from him in a long time, and he decides he likes the sound of it quite a lot.

Q can’t help but peer into the rooms as he passes. Every single one seems overly ornate and frivolous. Do they really need a room just for the piano?

“It was Miss Marple in the billiard room with the candlestick,” Q says solemnly, delighting in the smile he gets in response.

“Miss Marple was the detective, Q. And as far as I can remember, she never made an appearance in Cluedo,” A pause. “Would you like to see the billiard room? It’s somewhere near the drawing room.”

Q gapes at him. “There isn’t really a billiard room. You’re having me on.”

Bond just smiles enigmatically. “Am I?”

“I hate you,” Q says, swatting at Bond’s arm. Just as he says this, Rupert appears at their side.

“Trouble in paradise?” he asks, giving Q a friendly elbow to the side. Q doesn’t think they’re quite there yet, acquaintance wise, but he supposes that a man like Rupert wouldn’t much care for things like personal boundaries.

Bond, in response, slips his arm around Q’s waist, pulling him close. This has a dual effect: it shifts Rupert’s attention to Bond, thank god; and it makes Q blush something fierce. 

Lovely.

“Oh, nothing of the sort, Rupert,” Bond assures the older man, putting on that well-used fake cheer. “I just love to rile Quentin up. He’s so cute when he’s flustered, don’t you think?”

Despite the scowl Q sends Bond’s way, he can feel his cheeks redden even more. Rupert grins at that, and leads them into the drawing room, where ten other people are scattered in various conversations.

“That’s an awful lot of names to remember,” Q mutters into Bond’s ear. He’s slightly concerned at the amount of people, as he still gets the names of his interns mixed up.

“Don’t worry,” Bond whispers back equally quietly. “I had this down to a science when I was a kid.”

And so it goes: the crotchety elderly woman who stares suspiciously at Bond’s arm around Q’s waist and purses her lips disapprovingly at the state of his suit was, according to nine year old Bond, Winifred the Witch; the old couple with the badly dyed hair and the snobbish looks on their faces are Myrtle and Arthur  _ Blythe _ , who could never be  _ nice _ (a weak rhyme, but Bond had been seven when he’d met them); the plump woman who titters at every quip Bond makes and asks Q for scandalous stories of London is Beatrice the Biddy.

“‘Biddy?’ That’s an odd word for a boy to use,” Q observes as Bond stops to get them drinks, giving them a brief reprieve from introductions. 

“My mum called her that. It stuck.”

Q smiles at the thought of Bond’s mother gossiping with her little son. It’s a rather endearing mental image.

“Ready for round two?” Bond asks, and Q lets out a small groan, taking a large swig of the horridly expensive white wine.

The stout man with the half-empty glass of scotch and the boisterous laugh is Colonel Rutherford Stewart, or as little Bond called him, red-faced Ruttle; the middle-aged red-haired pair are Percy and Poppy Leighton (easy to remember, Bond remarked, with the alliteration) - Camille and Rupert’s twin children - who Bond used to follow around like a puppy; the man with the thick grey beard and the tweed jacket is Dull David Marshall, a nice enough man as dry as he is old. Eight year old Bond had just learned what the word ‘dull’ meant, and had been very excited to use it in his little nickname.

Camille and Rupert Q has already met, and so after an hour there is only one person left to be introduced: a beautiful blonde woman in her forties.

“Jamie Bond,” she says, laying an overly familiar hand on Bond’s arm. Rather forward, Q thinks, considering Bond’s fake boyfriend is standing right there. Maybe she hasn’t heard. “Look at you, all grown up.”

“Priscilla,” Bond says, beaming at the woman. It’s not as false as Q would have liked. “I could say the same for you. You’re just as beautiful as I remember.”

“Oh, please. The last time you saw me I was thirteen and skinny as a rail,” Priscilla responds, giving Bond a flirtatious smile. 

“And my eleven-year-old self was quite right to moon over you,” Bond replies, giving her a kiss on the cheek. He turns to Q, giving him the sort of smile that makes women all over the world swoon. “Might I introduce my partner,  Quentin?”

At this, Priscilla’s eyes widen slightly, clearly trying to hide her surprise. “‘Partner?’”

“Quentin Boothroyd, this is Priscilla Tate, an old friend of mine. Our parents went to school together.”

Q puts on his most polite smile, opening his mouth to greet her, but Priscilla speaks over him. “And to think, I’ve heard nothing but stories of James Bond, the great womanizer.”

Bond chuckles, and at last he has returned to Charming Fake Bond. “I suppose bisexuality is a bit of a new concept for us old-fashioned types,” he responds diplomatically. The ‘us’ softens the dig slightly, though Priscilla’s chagrined expression shows his point has been made.

Still, the word ‘bisexual’ has perked her right up, and within a few minutes Priscilla is back to flirting full force. She has yet to acknowledge Q outside of a polite nod, but then again Q is hardly competition for a woman like her, supposed relationship or not.

Not long after, to Q’s horror, he’s essentially snatched from Bond’s side and pulled onto the nearest settee, surrounded by Camille on his left and two other women sitting in chairs across from them. He recognizes the ginger twin, Poppy, from the background check he’d done prior to the op, but it takes a moment for him to remember Beatrice the Biddy. Her twittering giggle at his frazzlement is the clue that gets him there.

This is part of the mission, of course: work the room, try to subtly extract information about Rupert Leighton’s supposed connection to a domestic terrorist organization. Having met the man, Q finds it a bit far-fetched, though he supposes it would be a brilliant ruse to pretend to be a fuddy duddy ancient posh bloke. Q’s done similar interrogations before on ops, though usually in his domain: tech conferences and expos and the like. 

The issue here is that Q cannot seem to get the conversation away from Bond, no matter how he tries.

“How did you meet? Was it love at first sight? How long have you been together? When were you - ”

“Goodness me, Beatrice, let the poor boy breathe,” Camille interrupts, giving Q a pat on the knee. “That being said, Quentin, you simply must tell us everything.”

Just as nosy, but less overwhelmingly so.

“We - uh - we met in the National Gallery,” Q starts, because it’s best to tell a lie with a foundation of truth, after all. He colours slightly at the rapt attention he’s receiving from these three strangers. “I saw him sitting on one of the benches, and I - well, you’ve all seen him,” he says with a shrug, glancing over at where Bond is standing with Rupert and ….the one with the beard… David! Got it.

The three women nod sagely, Poppy looking slightly starry-eyed. Q can relate.

“I introduced myself to him, and we talked about the paintings a bit. He was very gruff, a little rude, and definitely hungover,” he says, chuckling a bit as Beatrice lets out a delightedly scandalized gasp. “But I still thought he was absurdly handsome, so I forgave him a bit too quickly for it. I’m sure you’ve had times where you’ve been too lenient with Rupert, too, Camille. It’s so easy to overlook things when you’re in love. Do you - ”

“What’s his best attribute, do you think?” Poppy asks, interrupting his attempt to change the subject. Shit.

“James?” A nod. “His eyes, of course.”

Not just their shockingly blue color, either; Q’s especially fond of the wrinkles at the corners of Bond’s eyes, the ones that show up when he smiles. 

Q’s also a big fan of his arse.

“Have you two been together long? You certainly argue like an old married couple, from what I’ve seen,” Camille asks, giving him a commiserating wink. 

“Oh, we’ve always been like that,” Q replies, thinking of their first experience on comms together, when he and Bond had been trading quips and bantering as if they hadn’t only met three days prior. “We haven’t been together very long. There always seemed to be another person in his life, you see. It was only a year ago, after - well, after a bad breakup on his part, that we got our heads out of our arses, if you’ll pardon my language.”

“He seems to have bounced back well,” Beatrice observes, staring at Bond blatantly. It must be painfully obvious to the rest of the room what they’re discussing. “I’m sure you’ve made him very happy.”

“I think he was quite heartbroken, more so than he let on,” Q says, remembering the resigned, hollow look in Bond’s eyes in the months after Madeleine left him. “But that’s one of his problems, you see: he just doesn’t want to talk about his feelings. Camille, surely you understand? There must be times when you feel like Rupert isn’t being compl - ”

“Do you think you’ll get married?” Poppy asks, yet again derailing his attempt at interrogation, and Q tries very hard not to gawp at her brazenness. “Gay marriage is legal now, after all.”

“Well, I certainly couldn’t imagine a life without him in it.” It’s diplomatic enough, and it’s true to boot.

The women are absolutely thrilled with that answer, Beatrice clapping her hands together excitedly. 

“Talking about me, are we?” Q startles at the sound of Bond’s voice coming from over his shoulder.

“Oh, I was just - ”

“Quentin was telling us about when you two first met. He says you were a horrible grump, Jamie! And a drunk grump, no less!” Poppy exclaims, cutting Q off yet again.

“I suppose I was, a bit,” Bond replies, giving the three women a wink. 

“And what did you think when you met your Quentin?” Camille asks eagerly. Q gets the feeling these people don’t get very much gossip, or indeed meet new people very often. Bond bringing Q this weekend will no doubt be a source of entertainment for months.

Bond hums thoughtfully, sitting on the arm of the sofa next to Q. “When we first met, I thought he was cocky, smug, irritating, and far more lovely than he had any right to be,” he says, grinning as he leans over and presses a cheeky kiss to Q’s temple.

The little group coos over the display of affection while Q tries very hard no to lift his hand to the place where Bond had kissed him. 

Damian the butler comes in just then and rings a silver bell to announce dinner. 

Bond holds Q back as they all stand to leave, tugging him close and pressing a slower, more intimate kiss to his cheek. Once their companions are far enough away, Bond pulls away, all business. He does take Q’s hand, for their cover’s sake, but other than that they’re simply 007 and the Quartermaster again.

“Any luck?” Bond asks, wandering slowly out of the room, well out of earshot from the rest of the party.

“None. You?”

Bond shakes his head. “Dull David lived up to my old name for him. He dominated the whole bloody conversation, talking about his stamp collection. Did you know the first adhesive postage stamp used in public service was called the Penny Black? Because I do now. I have fun facts, Q. Fun facts."

Q makes a mental note to put 'boredom' on Bond's list of weaknesses back at HQ. One stale conversation about stamps, and he's already looking slightly unhinged. Q's fairly certain his eye is twitching.

"And what’s worse, Rupert was actually encouraging him. He asked questions, Q. About  _ stamps _ .”

“If only there were a French detective who could come to the manor and solve our mysteries for us.”

“Poirot was Belgian, Q. And stop making Agatha Christie jokes.”

  


  


*****

  


  


At dinner, Q is sat far too close to the head of the table for his liking, Bond on his right and Dull David on his left. Winifred the Witch is just across from Bond, and across from Q is Percy, with Poppy on her twin’s right.

He’s soon dragged into quite possibly the most boring conversation of his life with David and Rupert (who is, of course, sitting at the head of the table on David’s left) about the differences between eggshell white and snow white. Rupert, inexplicably, keeps encouraging David to continue his lecture, unlike Q, who has tried to change the subject three times. He’s saved from his boredom by the sound of someone calling his name, although his relief is short lived as he looks over and sees that it is Winifred who’s addressing him.

“Tell me, young man, where is your family from? I’m not familiar with the name Boothroyd.”

Bond chokes on his bite of lamb, coughing, and only Q seems to realize that he’s laughing, the bastard.

“I’m from London, ma’am.”

“Ah. Where exactly? Kensington? Notting Hill?”

“South London, actually,” Q replies, trying very hard not to smirk at the absolutely scandalized look on the old woman’s face. 

“Well, that is a surprise,” Winifred responds.

“Come now, Auntie,” Camille chimes in from the other end of the table, and - oh, good lord, has the whole table been listening? “There are some lovely areas in South London.”

“Yes, there are. Unfortunately, I am not from one of them,” Q responds, taking a prim bite of his lamb. Good food shouldn’t go to waste, no matter how irritating the company. He tries very hard not to laugh at the expressions on the not-nice Blythes’ faces on either side of Camille. They look positively horrified.

He has a moment of doubt, where he wonders if riling up these people is really the best course of action, no matter how fun it might be. But when he glances hesitantly over at Bond, the other man just looks amused, smirking as he takes a sip of his wine. He even goes so far as to wink at Q when their eyes meet.

“I think you’ll find,” Bond says, reaching over and lacing their fingers together on the tabletop (a small, offended huff comes from the other end of the table, presumably from one of the Blythes) and giving Winifred a hard stare, “that our Quentin is not at all what he appears to be. That’s one of the many things I love about him.”

Q sends him a hopefully-not-too-besotted smile, ignoring the sharp pang in his chest at the false declaration. 

“Oh, to be young and in love,” Beatrice sighs from Bond’s right, looking at them dreamily. 

“Oh, not quite Beatrice,” Q says sagely, trying to lift the mood, “James here is nothing but a dirty old man.”

Bond’s outraged “Oi!” sends a good portion of the table into fits of laughter.

After dinner they return to the drawing room for drinks, though Q would much rather go to their rooms at this point. 

The more tipsy they get, the more gossip Q hears: Beatrice, according to Poppy, has been stealing valuable antiques from the house for years, only to be caught by Rupert this morning; Rupert and Camille have recently turned down a proposition of a match between their son Percy and the Blythes’ daughter, Geraldine; Colonel Stewart and Poppy are apparently in love, despite their near twenty-year age gap and her parents’ disapproval (but really, Q thinks, she’s forty-eight and living with her parents. She can make her own decisions for once.); and Camille is convinced that Rupert is having an affair with one of the maids.

It’s only this last one that is particularly relevant to Q’s interests, as Rupert’s secretive behavior could be indicative of not an affair, but criminal activities. Or both, he supposes.

Around ten o’clock Q decides it’s worth the risk of social faux-pas to make a retreat, so he says his goodnights, citing the long drive as his reasoning for going to bed before the evening is out.

Not even half an hour later he hears Bond speaking at his door. He probably forgot which of the adjoining rooms was his. Q sneaks over, never one to pass up an opportunity for eavesdropping.

“Are you sure you can’t get away? Even for a few minutes?” 

It’s Priscilla. Of course it is.

“Priscilla, that’s not the issue. I  _ can _ get away, I just don’t  _ want _ to,” Bond replies patiently. James Bond, turning down what is clearly an offer for sex? Q never thought he’d see the day.

“Come now, Jamie. Don’t you want a break from that little boy? Have some  _ real _ fun?”

_ Little boy? _ Q (who is nearly thirty-four, thank you very much) bristles at her dismissive tone. Who does she think she is, trying to seduce his fake boyfriend? Q’s always been mildly (re: extremely) jealous of the women Bond beds, but at least now he has a legitimate reason to be indignant.

“There’s no one on this planet I respect more than that  _ little boy _ ,” Bond snaps back, low and heated. “He’s the last person I’d ever hurt intentionally.”

Q feels something warm spread through his chest at that, at Bond’s defending him without prompting, no matter whether Q can hear. He had no idea how highly Bond thought of him, or how much he seems to care.

“He doesn’t have to be hurt, darling. He doesn’t have to know,” Priscilla continues, determined and uncaring of Q’s hypothetical feelings.

“But I’d know.”

“Oh, please, Jamie. Get off your high horse. Are you really going to choose a scrawny, specky kid over _ this? _ ” Q assumes there’s some sort of gesture to her - well, her everything.

“So it would seem,” Bond says flatly. Q hears footsteps, and realizes Priscilla must be walking away; he rushes back to where he’s set up his laptop, picking up one of their earpieces and studying it with more intensity than is probably warranted.

Bond comes in soon after, chuckling at the sight of Q in his plaid pajamas, hunched over the dim glow of his laptop.

“I’ve always thought that pajama line was a joke.”

“What pajama - ” Q pauses when he realizes what Bond’s referencing. “ I didn’t know you remembered that.”

“Of course I do. ‘Age is no guarantee of efficiency.’”

Q smiles fondly at the memory. “‘And youth is no guarantee of innovation.’”

They grin at each other for a moment, before Bond clears his throat. “Back at it, then?”

“Oh - uh - Yes. I was just double-checking everything, making sure we were all set for tonight.”

Bond nods, heading over and picking up his own earpiece, placing it in with an ease that comes with years of experience. “They should all be down by two, or at least locked up in their rooms. We’ll go to the study then, and you can copy the hard drive. Shouldn’t take longer than what? Ten minutes?”

“Twenty, given how old the computer is.”

  


  


*****

  


  


Bond spends a good ten minutes fiddling with Q’s outfit, loosening his tie and untucking his shirt. He also forces Q to take off his jacket and musses his hair. Apparently, if they run into anyone, the story is that they’re drunk and in love and looking for more liquor.

This also means that Bond is all over him as they head down the stairs and into Rupert’s study. It’s unreasonably distracting, and Q supposes he should be grateful when Bond detaches himself as they close the door behind them, but instead he just feels cold.

Bond goes about sweeping the room while Q settles behind the desk. 

And, immediately, something isn’t right.

As Q suspected, someone has augmented the old Dell to better serve their nefarious purposes. But the thing is, Q’s beginning to doubt that it was indeed Rupert after all. 

Because, all over the desk and even on the monitor itself, are sticky notes, reminders for Rupert.

_ Dad - _

_ The email password is 1234567, NOT ABCDEFG _

  


_ Pop -  _

_ Your login password is just six zeroes. Not that difficult. _

  


And so on.

It’s the work of perhaps two minutes to find the right data: from to stolen files detailing the schedules of the threatened MPs to blueprints of the Parliament building itself. There’s an encrypted file that Q doesn’t have the time to work on just now, but he saves it to an external drive nonetheless. He goes back over his tracks until he’s erased every trace of his ever being there. It’s only as he turns the computer back off that he starts to voice his concerns to Bond.

“Bond, I don’t think - ”

“Someone’s coming,” Bond hisses, and he pushes Q behind a  _ fucking secret door  _ behind one of the bookcases.

“Oh my god, this really  _ is _ real life Cluedo,” Q whispers, and in response Bond shoves a hand over his mouth.

It is, of course, Dull David who has come into the study, accompanied by what sounds like Percy.

“And you’re sure this book wasn’t in the library?” Percy sounds incredibly put-upon, which is understandable as far as Q’s concerned.

“Oh, yes. Rupert keeps his ornithology books in the study - he knows how much I like these old leather couches.”

Q peeks through the gap in the door and lets out a quiet snort at the sight of the old man. “Is he seriously wearing a  _ beige _ dressing gown?”

Dull David, indeed.

“Fucking David,” Bond mumbles, before dragging him down the thin corridor with perhaps more manhandling than is strictly warranted.

Of course, as they reach the end of the passage, there’s the distinct sound of voices on the other side of the door. Bond gestures for Q to hang back, then peers through the gap to get a good look. After assessing the situation, he turns to Q with a determined expression.

“The hallway lets out into the kitchen. It looks like the Colonel and Poppy are in there,” Bond murmurs.

Q makes a face at the thought of red-faced Ruttle, who must be nigh on seventy-five, getting frisky.

“ _ Talking _ , Q,” Bond clarifies with a smirk - a least he can find entertainment in Q even in relatively stressful situations. 

“What’s the play?”

Bond pauses for a just a moment. “Do you trust me?”

“Of course,” Q doesn’t even hesitate.

The sharp, focused look in Bond’s eyes softens for a brief moment at Q’s response, and he gives Q a quick, pleased smile before getting back to business. 

“Remember: you’re a sweet, blushing ingenue, and we’re both completely sloshed.”

Q nods, and from one heartbeat to the next Bond is on him, a hand tangled in his hair, the other groping at his waist as he kisses the breath out of Q.

Q remains frozen for a moment, completely shocked at this turn of events, before he gets with the program, surging into the kiss with a sharp inhale. If he’s only going to get to kiss Bond like this once, he’s going to make it count. 

Besides, he’s very committed to this cover. He has a professional interest in making this as believable as possible.

Q clutches onto Bond’s lapels at first, then lets his hands slide up and around the other man’s neck as he sinks into the kiss. Bond nips at his lower lip teasingly, and Q can’t help his shuddering gasp, or the way he tightens his grip on Bond in response. He can feel Bond’s smirk against his lips, because of course the man would be infuriatingly competent and smug even in this. Another bite, slower and more deliberate, and Q can’t remember why he was annoyed in the first place. 

Bond crowds Q against the door, pushing him roughly against the wood and pressing their bodies flush together, not once breaking the kiss.

Q has what feels like half a second to appreciate the  _ very impressive  _ hard-on pressed against his own before Bond pushes the door open and they stumble through in a tangle of limbs. He can only assume they stay upright thanks to Bond’s unreasonable innate gracefulness, though it’s a near thing. Q can’t seem to get his feet under him, and so they end up crashing into a set of shelves despite Bond’s best efforts.

Q can’t help it - he starts laughing into the (still ongoing) kiss. Bond can jump from roof to roof, from helicopter to jet plane, but it’s an uncoordinated Quartermaster that makes him nearly lose his balance.

Bond starts to laugh as well, tucking his face into Q’s neck and chuckling quietly even as he presses possessive kisses to the sensitive skin there. Q’s giggles dissolve into a breathy moan as teeth scrape carefully across his adam’s apple, and then - 

A throat clears, and it’s only Bond’s vice grip on his waist that keeps Q from falling over as he startles.

Right.

Poppy and the Colonel.

The reason they’re doing this in the first place.

He peers over, and - yep, there they are, staring at him and Bond with wide eyes. The Colonel is even redder than usual, and Poppy looks highly amused.

The good news is that Q won’t really need to put on an act for this part of their little subterfuge, as both he and “Quentin” are  _ absolutely mortified _ . He buries his face in Bond’s neck with a groan.

“Looks like someone had the same idea as us, love,” Bond says, slurring his speech deliberately. “You lot looking for more champagne, too?”

  


  


*****

  


  


They get back to the room with no violence warranted, a feat practically unheard of given Bond’s track record.

Q turns to Bond with a pleased smile once the door is shut behind them. He rushes over to his laptop, connecting the copied hard-drive and beginning the data transfer. “Excellent work, Double-oh-Seven. We’ll review our findings in the morning, yes?”

“Sounds good to me,” Bond says with a nod, heading through their joint bathroom to his own quarters, no doubt to get some well-earned sleep. He must be more tired than Q had thought; he hadn’t even bothered to say goodnight.

Q crawls into bed, tossing his glasses onto the nightstand, but just before he turns his light off, Bond comes back in wearing nothing but a threadbare pair of sweatpants. 

“Is something wrong?” he asks, sitting up quickly. What could have possibly happened in the past five minutes?

“No, Q. I’m just going to bed.”

“...in my room?”

Bond gives him an indulgent look. “Well, we  _ are _ lovers.”

“Bond, it’s not like they’re going to be checking in on us. There’s no reason for them to doubt that we’re together,” Q says this, but he makes no move to stop Bond as he climbs into the bed next to him. Mostly because he’s too confused.

“The maids come in sometimes before sunrise and tend to the fireplaces for the guests.”

“You’re joking.”

“Not at all. Once when I was seven, I started crying because I thought there was a monster in my room. It turned out to be a very sweet old woman just doing her job.”

Q laughs, reaching over and turning off the light. He turns back, lying on his side and looking at Bond thoughtfully. The moon tonight is nearly full, and there’s just enough of a gap in the curtains to bathe part of Bond’s face in pale, bluish light. His eyes are just as striking in the moonlight as in the sunshine.

Q’s mostly staring at Bond’s face because if he doesn’t he’ll end up ogling the man’s shoulders and collarbones.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without your glasses,” Bond remarks quietly, reaching out and brushing some hair out of Q’s eyes. It’s the most intimate thing he’s ever done with Q, even after holding hands and exchanging kisses on cheeks. “I don’t know which look I prefer.”

“Well, I prefer being able to see,” Q turns over, because if he doesn’t he’s going to end up doing something stupid like try and touch Bond.

Q is trying very, very hard not to think about what just happened between them, about how real it all felt. That train of thought will only lead to madness, he’s sure.

“Goodnight, James.”

Bond lets out a deep sigh. “Goodnight, Q.”

  


  


*****

  


  


He and Bond hadn’t set an alarm after they’d finished the op, but Q wakes up at five A.M. nonetheless. Q can’t really remember the last time he’d slept for more than five hours at a time; he usually sustains himself through well-timed naps. 

Still, he has no reason not to go back to sleep: he doesn’t have to go into the office, as he’s essentially on holiday, and there’s no timetable for this particular stage of the op. He lets his eyes slide closed, snuggling back against Bond’s chest. 

He stiffens, his eyes snapping open. 

Q and Bond definitely hadn’t been spooning when he’d gone to bed, but it would seem that during the night they’d drifted together toward the center of the bed, curling around each other for warmth. 

Bond’s wrapped around him like an octopus, his front plastered against Q’s back, and - oh god, is he nuzzling his neck? Yes. James Bond, Man of Mystery, 007, is  _ nuzzling _ him in his sleep, burrowing his face into the crook of Q’s shoulder.

Q’s not too proud to admit that he’s thought about this exact situation before. That he has, in his weaker moments, imagined what it might be like to really be with Bond. The first time he’d daydreamed about waking up in the morning next to Bond instead of falling into bed with him, Q had realized what deep shit he’d been in. Until he’d pictured Bond’s sleeping face on the pillow next to him, he’d been convinced that this thing he feels for the other man had been purely physical.

Q sucks in a startled breath as Bond tightens the arm slung around his waist, pulling him out of his thoughts with a mumbled demand for Q to go back to sleep. Bond tugs Q even closer, running his nose along the back of his neck.

Q goes to protest, but then Bond presses a chaste, sweet kiss to his shoulder, a silent ‘please’, and all the fight goes out of him. He sighs, settling back against Bond, sinking back onto his pillow luxuriously.

“I’m going to tell everyone back at Six that the infamous James Bond is a cuddler.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Bond mumbles this into his spine with mild indignation, but Q can feel the smile pressed into his skin. 

It takes less than three minutes for Q to fall back asleep, lulled by the gentle rise and fall of Bond’s chest against his back.

  


  


*****

  


  


They don’t get their well-deserved rest.

They sleep for maybe another hour and a half when a horrified shriek cuts through the house, jolting them both awake. 

Bond’s out the door in less than a minute, Q hot on his heels. 

They’re not the first to arrive in the library: Damian the butler is holding a shaking, crying maid - no doubt the woman who screamed earlier - and the Blythes are standing just inside the entryway, frozen in shock. 

The maid’s hysterics and the Blythes’ horrified expressions are explained as soon as Q and Bond get further into the room: there, on the floor of the study, behind the desk, is Rupert Leighton, with a knife in his chest.

Well, that certainly complicates things.

Bond pulls him to the side as the rest of the guests stumble into the room, all in varying states of undress. By the time everyone has arrived and had time to scream or cry or faint or pale at the sight of the body, Bond has Q backed nearly into a corner. 

Every time he tries to move forward, Bond pushes him back, and so Q resigns himself to watching everything from over the other man’s shoulder.

Later, he’ll be touched that Bond is being so protective over him, that he’s so determined to place himself between Q and any potential threats.

Right now, though, Q’s just annoyed that Bond won’t let him get a good look. Besides, if any one of these people is the murderer… well, Q thinks he could take Winifred the witch, even in his pajamas.

It’s the Colonel - the redness in his cheeks for once gone, paled at the sight of his dead friend - who manages to get everyone’s attention, hollering over the panicked ruckus of the room. He instructs Damian the butler to call the police, then make tea, and ushers everyone into the drawing room. 

This would be a good opportunity for Bond and Q to separate, to do some sleuthing of their own, but Bond, inexplicably, refuses to let Q out of his sight. He even goes so far as to pull Q into his lap, pretending to console his ‘shaken’ partner. Q tries his best to look frightened rather than extremely flustered at being so close to Bond.

People are huddled together all throughout the room, crying and theorizing and not paying any attention to the couple curled up on the loveseat in the corner. Camille hasn’t stopped weeping since she saw Rupert’s body, and her children, sitting next to her, look completely shell shocked. Q suspects the grief will come later.

“What’s the play?” Bond murmurs. “For when the police come, I mean.”

Q hums thoughtfully. He rests his head on Bond’s shoulder, looking to the rest of the room as if he’s seeking out comfort. In reality he’s just moving closer to Bond’s ear so he can speak more quietly.

“Telling the police we’re MI6 would certainly make our lives easier. I don’t much fancy being a murder suspect. But…”

“But?” Bond asks, carding a hand through Q’s hair. It’s terribly distracting, and it takes perhaps just a bit too long for Q to finish his thought.

“I - uh - I’m not sure I trust the local police to keep our secret. I’d rather the still-very-much-alive terrorists not know we’re here, at least until we know who they are.”

Plus, if they let the cat out of the bag, then Bond would have no reason to run his hands through Q’s hair, or hold him like this again. 

“Mum’s the word, then.” Bond decides, nodding to himself. 

Q has a sudden thought, curses to himself quietly, then sits back up to face Bond fully. “I didn’t even think to ask: how are you? Are you alright?”

Bond gives him a puzzled look. “This is hardly my first death, Q. If anything, I should be asking  _ you _ that.”

Q reaches a hand out, resting it gently on Bond’s still-bare chest. “No, I mean - you’ve known that man since you were a child, James. He was a friend of your parents.”

Bond’s face softens in understanding, and he smiles gently, covering Q’s hand with his own. “I’m fine, Q.”

Q narrows his eyes, searching Bond’s eyes for any hint of a lie. After a few moments’ observation, he decides that yes, Bond is fine, and lets himself relax. 

Well, relax some.

There is a dead man in the next room, after all.

“You know,” Q says thoughtfully, glancing around, “I feel a little guilty, now, for all those Agatha Christie jokes.”

“If it’s any consolation, they weren’t particularly  _ good _ jokes.”

  


  


*****

  


  


It becomes abundantly clear within the first five minutes of Q’s interview that he and Bond are not just suspects, but the prime suspects. Or, more accurately, that Bond is the prime suspect. They probably think Q is an accomplice.

Which is completely ridiculous. Q is clearly the mastermind in their relationship.

The lead detective, a middle-aged man with a truly horrendous mustache, also seems to think Q is a lost little lamb. 

It probably doesn’t help that none of them have had the chance to go upstairs and get changed: Q probably looks at least ten years younger in his old pajamas.

“Now, Quentin, was it?” he asks, and Q nods. “Tell me about the deceased.”

Rupert Leighton, b. April 4, 1942. Age 72. Three brothers, deceased. Wife, two children. Circumstantial evidence indicates possible connection to domestic terrorist groups. Mission goal: investigate Leighton and secure evidence of tangible connection to coordinated attempted assassinations of recently elected Labour Party MPs.

“Oh, I couldn’t say. I only met him yesterday, you know. He was nice, I guess. Old-fashioned. James was very fond of him.”

“Right. James. Your...lover?” The detective looks back over his notes, flipping through to find his information from James’s interview.

“Boyfriend. Partner,” Lying for Q, at this point in his career, is practically instinctual.

“How long have you been together?”

“Just over a year,” Q replies, trying to seem lovestruck. 

To be fair, he is a little lovestruck, he just usually hides it.

“And had he ever mentioned the Leightons, or Wynchwood, before this visit?”

Q doesn’t like where this is going.

“James doesn’t talk much about his childhood. It wasn’t particularly happy.”

The detective looks around the ornate room they’ve set up shop in, then gives Q a bemused look, as if he can’t believe anyone who grew up in a place like Wynchwood or Skyfall could have a difficult childhood. “And he just - what, decided to accept the invitation on a whim? Mrs. Leighton says she’s been asking him back for  _ decades _ .”

These sort of situations are exactly why MI6 and Q Branch are so insistent on having thorough backstories. 

“James had an accident not too long ago. He nearly died. That’s enough to make anyone change their outlook on life,” Q responds. To be fair, Bond’s near-death experiences are many. He could pick any mission from the past four years, and his statement would remain true.

“It’s funny, don’t you think, that the one weekend your boyfriend decides to come back here, Mr. Leighton is murdered?”

“What exactly are you implying, here?” Q asks defensively. 

Well, Quentin asks defensively. Q finds this whole situation kind of amusing, in all honesty.

The detective leans forward onto his elbows, giving Q a kind, patronizing sort of look. “It’s okay, Mr. Boothroyd. We’ve seen this sort of thing before.”

“What sort of thing?”

“You meet some handsome, well-off older man, he sweeps you off your feet. He’s mysterious, and dangerous, and you fall for him. It’s okay to admit you’re in over your head, son. We’ve all done reckless things for love.”

“James would never have hurt Rupert,” Q insists, which is not entirely true. If Rupert had turned out to actually be involved with the assassination attempts, Bond probably would have gotten a bit (re: very) violent. “The man was incredibly important to his parents.”

“And if Mr. Leighton hadn’t been friends with Mr. and Mrs. Bond?”

“Well, what reason would he have? Rupert was a kind old man.”

The detective sighs, leaning back against his chair. “Alright, Mr. Boothroyd. I think we have what we need. Thank you for your time.” He waves his hand, indicating that Q can leave, thank god. He calls for Q just before he leaves the room, however. “Mr. Boothroyd? You seem like a smart boy, so let me give you some advice. I’ve known a few men like Mr. Bond in my time, and I know when someone is bad news. He’ll only get you hurt.”

Q tries not to laugh. ‘Bad news’ doesn’t even begin to cover it. And, well. He’s always known that Bond was going to hurt him someday.

Q heads up to their room after his interview, citing a phone call from his mother. He isn’t the least bit surprised when Bond follows.

“So?”

“They definitely think you’re the murderer.”

Bond chuckles. “Well, I  _ am _ a murderer.”

Q rolls his eyes at Bond’s choice of words, because he’s not, not really, but he lets it go. Now is not the time to dig into Bond’s self-image issues. “Not this time, though.”

Bond goes to answer, then pauses, giving Q an assessing look. “You really don’t think I did it?”

Q blinks. “The thought hadn’t even occurred to me.“

“You trust me that much?”

Q stares at him, puzzled. “I don’t understand. Did you want me to assume you murdered Leighton?”

“No, it’s just - I’m the only person here who’s killed someone before. It’s my job, killing people. I’m the obvious choice.”

Q shrugs. “Yes, but you had no reason to kill him.”

“You think I need a reason to kill someone?”

“No, I  _ know _ you need a reason,” Q says, hands on his hips. “Now, can we get back to the operation at hand, or would you like to keep doubting my opinion of you?”

Bond smiles, a small, private thing. “Whatever you say, Q.”

  


  


*****

  


  


They decide, in the end, to let the police handle the murder investigation. Their priority has to be the almost-terrorists. They agree that it wasn’t Rupert, and so now their suspects have extended to members of the immediate family and the staff, all of whom would have had access to the study. It’s incredibly frustrating to go from one to fifteen suspects. 

Bond thinks it’s probably Damian the butler. Q thinks it’s either Poppy or Percy. Or both. There’s just something Q doesn’t trust about twins. He thinks he probably saw  _ The Shining _ too young. 

Q goes to work decrypting the remaining downloaded files, and within minutes they have their terrorist’s name. Well, their  _ codename _ , but still. 

“‘Lancelot?’” Bond reads from over Q’s shoulder. “That’s a bit on-the-nose, isn’t it?”

Q can’t help but agree. “It’s like an American extremist calling himself ‘Uncle Sam.’”

Q grabs their I.D.s from a hidden pouch in his suitcase and shoves them in one of the the pockets of his pajama pants. If he has his way, they’ll take in the terrorist via words and handcuffs, not via bodybag. 

They head back downstairs toward the throng, new clue in hand.

They make it two steps through the doorway before Q has his epiphany, looking at the crowd of people scattered across the sitting room.

He tightens his grip on Bond’s arm pointedly. “Lancelot. As in Sir Lancelot,” he mutters quietly.

Bond shoots him a confused look. “...yes?”

“Tell me, James, do you see any other members of the round table here?”

“What are you going on abou…” Bond trails off as he glances over at the grieving family. “Percy. Sir Percival.”

“Exactly.”

“Surely it can’t be that obvious,” Bond murmurs.

“You do remember how easy it was for us to get that codename in the first place?”

A beat. “Fair enough.”

Q looks back at Percy, sitting with his crying mother and sister. “Poor Camille. First a dead husband, and now a terrorist son.”

Bond hums thoughtfully. “The question is, how are we - ”

The police officers come in at that moment, and Bond cuts himself off. 

The lead detective, the one with the mustache, asks for the room’s attention, gesturing for silence.

“It’s rare that we find such a cut-and-dried case when it comes to murder, but here we are.” 

Q raises a brow at that. Last he’d checked their lead suspect had been an MI6 operative who at the time of the murder had been spooning with Q.

The detective, oblivious to Q’s doubts, goes on to turn to Bond. “James Bond, I’m arresting you under suspicion of the murder of Rupert Leighton.  You do not have to say anything, but, it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something \- ”

“Oh, for  _ fuck’s _ sake,” Q shouts, cutting off the officer in his irritation. The room stares at him in shocked silence, while Bond - who had politely offered his wrists to be handcuffed and was now standing flanked by two uniformed officers - starts to shake with the effort of keeping his laughter silent. 

“You can’t arrest him! I need him!”

The mustached detective gives Q a pitying look, reaching out toward him with placating hands. “Now, son, I know this must come as a shock, but sometimes the people we love aren’t who we - ”

“Oh my god, shut  _ up _ ,” Q hisses. He can practically feel the vein on his forehead pulsing with his  frustration. “I know exactly who he is. I know he’s a killer. I’ve literally seen him do it. I love him anyway. Isn’t that what love is? Accepting someone for who they are?”

The detective and his officers just stare at him, baffled. Q lets out another irritated huff and digs into his pockets, pulling out their MI6 badges. 

“Here I thought, I could just let the police do their job, and we could do ours, no fuss. Obviously I didn’t account for the never ending downward spiral of incompetence I am constantly surrounded by.”

He all but chucks the I.D.s at the lead investigator’s head. The lead investigator, who, upon seeing their credentials, promptly pales from the top of his balding head all the way down to his ugly bushy mustache.

Q glances over at Bond and, upon seeing that the man has surreptitiously broken free of his handcuffs, decides to go for broke.

He gets right up in Mustache Detective’s face, pointing an angry finger in Bond’s direction. “You see, I need him, because, while I am undoubtedly smarter than everyone in this room, nothing gets the job done quite like a pair of fists. And, let me tell you, his are a good pair to invest in. So while I could, in theory, talk Percival Leighton into coming under custody, it’s much easier for me to say ‘Bond! Look! I’ve found the terrorist!’ And let him do the heavy lifting.”

Percy, having realized the jig is well and truly up, gets up to flee the scene. Bond has Percy on the floor in seconds, and Q gets a truly lovely view of Bond’s arse in the process.

“‘Lancelot?’ Really Percy? Awfully cliche, don’t you think?”

Of course, Bond would be stuck on Percy’s ill-advised codename rather than the fact that he’s just been accused of murder. Q walks over and picks up the handcuffs Bond’s broken out of, tossing them back over so the man can get off their suspect.

Bond gets up and hands Percy over to the uniforms who’d previously been holding him. They take their new charge without a word, still looking mystified.

“By the way,” Bond says, turning to the lead detective and plucking their I.D.s out of his hands, “I didn’t kill Rupert. You’re looking for his lover, David Marshall.”

At this, the shocked silence that had fallen over the room at Q’s outburst finally breaks, people letting out surprised exclamations and starting to shout.

Even Q can’t help his own reaction. “ _ Dull David? _ ”

“The sash from his bathrobe - the one you pointed out last night, remember Q? - was lying not five feet from the body this morning.”

“That doesn’t necessarily mean - ” one of the policemen pipes up, but Bond just keeps going.

“Plus - crime of passion and all - there were about six stab wounds,” Bond pauses, gives Officer Mustache a level look. “I’m a professional. Do you really think I’d need six tries to get it right?”

  


  


*****

  


  


“How did you know?” Q asks Bond as he adjusts his monitors; his second in command, R, is two inches taller than him, which means that while he was gone, she’d angled the screens  _ just _ enough to be a distraction. He can’t seem to get them right. “That they were lovers, I mean.”

Because they  _ had _ been lovers, for nearly fifty years. David had apparently become sick of Rupert’s false promises and assurances that he’d divorce Camille, and in a fit of rage had stabbed his partner. It was like something out of a film, and yet David, even in tears, had managed to make it sound as mundane as possible. 

After the police had taken both David and Percy (“Might as well send him along too, eh, Q? I don’t much fancy driving all the way back to London with him in the backseat.”) the remaining guests were left to console the grieving widow and her daughter. There were far too many hugs for Q’s taste, and then Poppy had had the brilliant idea to distract Camille from her grief by bombarding Q and Bond with questions about MI6 and their lives as “super spies.” 

Q would have complained, but being questioned about his job was infinitely preferable to the interrogation about his and Bond’s fake relationship he’d suffered through the night previously.

They’d spent the drive back to London on a conference call with M and Tanner, and the days following debriefing separately. 

The point is, they haven’t had a moment just the two of them, really, not since Bond’s little revelation or Q’s outburst, and now Bond has come and found him in his branch, in the wee hours of the morning.

The latter of which, Q hopes, will go without comment. It hadn’t been until the adrenaline had worn off that he’d realized just what he’d admitted to in the midst of his anti-mustachioed-detective diatribe. Only Q could manage to confess his love for someone while simultaneously insulting an entire room of people.

“David and Rupert?” Bond’s been quietly watching Q for the past few minutes, leaning casually against his work table. “I saw them once when I was a child, in that very library. I wasn’t even sure it was still happening until I saw the sash on the floor.”

“That’s an awfully big leap.”

Bond smirks, stepping forward into Q’s space. “That’s what my entire career is built on: big leaps.”

Q takes a step back. “I suppose. Though I’m there some of the time to tell you what’s on the other side. Give me some credit.”

Another step forward.

“You know, Q, it was easy to tell they were together, if you paid attention. Only a man in love would actively encourage someone to talk about their stamp collection for an hour straight.”

Q hums thoughtfully, even as he takes another step backward. “That’s a fair point.”

“Listening to the two of them reminded me a bit of you and I, you know. When you go on and on about your new monitors or cameras, and I just nod along and pretend to be interested for your sake.”

“What - are you comparing me to  _ Dull David? _ Are you calling me  _ dull? _ I am  _ not _ dull. My telling you about cutting edge, game-changing technologies is nothing like having to listen to a lecture on stamps. And, by the way, those new cameras have saved your life ten times over, you know. And - ”

“Q. Would you stop whining and just - think about what I said?” Bond interrupts him, looking tense.

“ _ Whining?  _ You just compared me to a murderer! A  _ boring _ murderer!”

“Q,” Bond pleads, giving him a pointed glare. 

Q pouts, crossing his arms and leaning back against his table.  Why is Bond taking this so seriously?  _ He _ was the one who’d been teasing  _ Q _ , comparing him to Dull David.

Well, he’d actually compared both Q and he to David and Rupert, who -

Wait.

“Are you - did you just try to tell me you  _ love me? _ By insulting me and calling me boring?” Q asks, incredulous.

“To be fair, you told me you loved me immediately after calling me a murderer.”

Q blushes at the memory. He supposes this is a better outcome than what he’d been hoping for, which had been Bond politely ignoring his little confession, but he’s still a bit thrown. “It was more addressed to the room at large than you specifically.”

Bond smirks, leaning forward and placing his hands on the table, bracketing Q between his arms. “Would you care to remedy that?”

Q hesitates. He knows Bond wouldn’t toy with him like this, no matter how much of an arse he can be at times. But it’s frightening, to expose himself like this. He’d take diffusing bombs over emotional revelations any day.

Bond seems to notice his fears and, ever the double-oh, makes the first leap.

“I love you, Q,” he says it simply, without a trace of false charm or teasing flirtatiousness.

Q beams at him, reaching out and fingering Bond’s tie shyly. “I love you, too, James.”

Bond grins, dimpling adorably as the wrinkles around his eyes deepen. He tugs Q close for a lingering, chaste kiss. Q sighs into it, smiling even as their lips touch. 

Still, true to form, he has to say his piece once they pull apart.

“Bond? Promise me something.”

“Anything.”

“The next time we go on holiday; no murders. Or old people. Or stamps.”

Bond laughs brightly. “Deal.”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! 
> 
> [tumblr](https://vesprlynd.tumblr.com)


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